The Necromancer Conspiracy: The Jackal
by Dulcie
Summary: Home is like a battlefield.
1. The Unexpected Guest

"Has the intruder been taken care of?"

"Yes, your lordship. The Bosmer is being interrogated as we speak, though he kept ranting about not knowing where he was and claiming he's done nothing wrong."

"Hmph. So he's a liar, too."

Arto watched, perched on a rafter above the guard barracks, as Andel Indarys, Count of Cheydinnhal, and a guard exchanged words. His heart pounded – a vigorous _thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump_ – like the sound of a charging horse. It was no mere reconnaissance mission anymore. No, he felt to the core of his bones that it was turning into something much greater. Anxious, he listened.

"And I suppose he came with burglary in mind," the Count said.

"We won't know for sure until we get a solid answer from him. But we think he had… worse intentions than just stealing."

The Count was perplexed. "What do you mean?"

"Well… in his possession we found… well – best see for yourself."

Rummaging, and then from his pocket the guard produced what looked like three oval-shaped coals. Arto observed a purplish glow emanating from them.

The Count jumped an inch away from the guard as if he'd been shocked and clutched his chest. Arto's heart skipped a beat; he knew what those rocks were even without the count's frightened reaction.

"Wh-wh-wha? H-how? Wh-why?" the count stammered.

"Trust me, your lordship. We'll get to the bottom of this," the guard said, quickly shoving the stones back into his pocket, as if afraid that any more of their presence might kill the Count. "If he's a necromancer, then he'll be dealt with properly."

"B-b-but why me?" Indarys said, finding words at last. "Why my town, my estate? What about my son? Is my son safe?"

"He's safe, and your wife, too. We've assigned them and you with full protection of the guard."

There was a brief silence, and then the Count cleared his throat. "May I confide something to you, my friend?" he said, his gaze shifting to the floor, shuffling his feet nervously.

"Of course," the guard said, taken aback, but concerned.

The Count opened his mouth, about to speak, but closed it shut, unable to find the right words. He hesitated a moment longer, and then spoke, his voice barely above a whisper, but Arto's sensitive hearing caught all of what he told. "I… I feel as if there's been… been a _change_," he said. "It's as if there's a great charge in the air – do you know what I mean?"

The guard creased his brow. "Can't say, but things have been shaky since the death of Uriel Septim – what with all the riots and whatnot."

The Count persisted. "But this is different! It's as if… as if… ah, I don't know," Indarys said, shoulders sagging.

The guard shrugged. "In any case, you should get some rest, my lord. Tend to your family – the guard will handle things."

"I suppose you're right," the count sighed, then straightened up. "I assume you have other important things to do. Return to your post."

"Yes, my lord."

Indarys turned to leave. "And don't worry," the guard added. "We'll make sure this issue is solved."

"Ah" was the only reply before the count left the guard barracks. And once the count had left, Arto made his move.

* * *

Edhelas felt like the most unlucky man in the world. No, _was_ the most unlucky man in the world was more like it. He was being accused of something he didn't even remember doing. Not only that, he was being framed as a necromancer. Talk about being at the wrong place at the wrong time.

"Look, it doesn't do you any better by lying to us. Tell the truth, and it'll spare us all the trouble."

The guard sat across from him, annoyed and tired; his voice a complete monotone. It was obvious he'd didn't want to be there – rather be drunk or sleeping, presumably – and didn't want to deal with Edhelas's pleas, so he continued to coax him into admitting his "crimes" - which he wouldn't do.

"I told you the truth already a thousand times over. I don't know why I'm here. I don't remember anything before waking up on the floor of the count's chambers, but I'm certain I had no intention of harming anybody."

"But if you don't remember, how can you be so certain that you meant no harm?" the guard countered, frustration seeping into his tone.

"That's absurd! I –"

"Look, how about we start over, and this time tell me the truth: who sent you here? Was it Mannimarco, or the 'King of Worms' as your people call him?"

"My people?"

"Don't play dumb, necromancer."

"Necromancer?"

"You heard me," he said, then pressed on. "You know we found three black soul gems hidden in your pockets. All of the evidence is against you. There's no other alternative from the truth. So, tell me," he leaned in closer, "who sent you?"

Edhelas gritted his teeth and hissed, "I… already… told… you."

The guard sighed and stood up. "Aye, men! Take him back to his cell!" he called, then gave Edhelas a curious glare. "It seems we'll have to use different tactics to get this one to talk."

As the guard left two other guards marched in and, holding an arm each, hauled him to his cell, where they flung him down on the hard stone floor. They slammed his cell door behind them, the loud "click-click" of the lock echoing throughout the dungeon.

Edhelas got up, listening to the fading footsteps of the guards. _They could have at least given me some food… _

* * *

Edhelas awoke later that night, thinking that it was because of his grumbling belly, or the lumpy bedroll he'd been sleeping on.

_To Oblivion with this shithole_, he said to himself.

He peered through the bars of his cell. Perhaps there was a guard around that he could annoy; Akatosh knows, it'd probably make him sleep better. Or at least ask for some food, and maybe a comfier bed. Of course, the most likely reaction would be that he'd deny his request, but at least he could say that he tried.

But there wasn't a guard. Only a dank blackness greeted him, broken by the lit torches of his and other prisoners' cells, two more flickering down the hall.

He caught a shimmer in the corner of his eye, but saw nothing when he looked and passed it as a trick of light.

_Bah, getting a bit too jumpy…_

He turned to go back to bed, but heard a faint cough seeming to come just outside his cell. He whipped around to find that no one was there. And then there was a voice.

"You're supposed to be a necromancer? No offense, but I imagined you'd be a bit more… _able_, if you get my meaning."

The words were frozen in Edhalas's throat. Pondering his sanity, he did nothing but stare at the visible space beyond his cell. Perhaps prison was already getting to him.

"See? You don't even know how to look for me."

"Wh-who are you?" Edhelas squeaked.

"Not yet, friend," the voice hastily replied. "You certainly are not a necromancer. No magical skills, none at all."

"Try telling that to the guards," Edhelas joked, though still on edge.

"I already have." The voice sounded serious, but Edhelas wasn't sure.

"Look. Look closely," the voice continued. "You're looking straight at me. Now you just have to _see_ me."

Edhelas wasn't sure what he meant, but he did notice a slight distortion in the darkness outside his cell. Looking closer, he noticed that the distortion was in the shape of a man – tall and hooded, cloaked in what seemed to be robes.

"I… I see you, I think."

"Good. Now, reach out and touch me."

Edhelas made no move at first, paralyzed by uncertainty, his thoughts torn between action and inaction. _What could this man possibly want with me? _he thought. _What is he capable of?_

Then, trembling, he inched his fingers, hand, arm out between the bars to the distorted glimmering air. He hesitated the last few inches – afraid of what he might discover with a single touch – and yelped when he felt something grasp his wrist. A high elf clad in robes as black as the darkness surrounding him materialized with a poof of green cloud. He held Edhelas's wrist with a grip so tight it made Edhelas cringe. He squirmed and jerked his arm, but the Altmer's grip held as if he were doing nothing at all.

"Not bad. Seems you have a keen eye, as Bosmers and elves alike do," the Altmer said, smiling.

When he smiled, Edhelas noticed that his canines were thin and elongated – barely prodding his lower lip – and his eyes shown with a dull red hue. He gasped and the Altmer let go, his smile sparkling with amusement as Edhelas realized what he was.

"Wh-what do you want with me, vampire?" Edhelas stammered, taking a step back.

The Altmer laughed. "Ah, you mortals are so very entertaining. One mere look at a vampire and you shake like leaves. I haven't even drank from you, and who's to say I want to? Honestly, you don't look very appetizing."

It was awkward, Edhelas decided, to be talking to a vampire about the matters of eating. "You didn't come for blood, then," he said, slightly shaking. "I suppose you came here for something else other than just for conversation. Unless you're very bored."

The Altmer chuckled. "Right to the point. And a good sense of humor, too. That's always nice. But your witty tongue will be useless to you in the future, unfortunately."

"Future?"

He flashed another smile, curling and sly. "You'll find out soon enough. But first let's get you out of this cage."

With a wave of his hand, the door glowed with a pale yellow light, then dissipated as a loud click was heard; the lock had been undone. _Quite the magician_, Edhelas noted. Most wouldn't dare use magic to open prison locks – they were too complex and secure and took a lot of energy to undo. Alteration magic was mainly used for the cheaper and flimsier locks; only those well-practiced in the art of Alteration were able to pull off such a feat. It was hard not to be impressed.

The Altmer tapped the door and it swung open, its rusty hinges moaning. Edhelas clapped his hands to his head, clenching his teeth. "Damn it, man, do you have to be so loud? At this rate the guards will throw both of us back into jail."

"Is that so?"

He slammed the door behind Edhelas, the bang echoing along the walls. ("Son of a bitch!") The sound woke the few other prisoners, mumbling and groaning, confused.

"Oh, perfect. Just perfect. You wake them up and-"

"Just follow me and stay close. Mind your tongue, too, or you won't be having it for long," the Altmer barked

Edhelas kept quiet.

* * *

The guard watched the two elves descend the stairs leading to the main hall, his heart picking up a good pace. His hand gripped the hilt of his blade on instinct. _Just in case…_

He could care less about the Bosmer. It was that high elf – dressed all in black, a hood hiding most of his face – that made him so nervous.

Usually, men like him wouldn't scare the guard. After all, he was specially trained to handle such men, if the case may be. And he'd tried, too. When the elf approached him, demanding the prisoner or his life, he'd swore to give him hell. And that was his biggest mistake. He was on his back, unarmed, pinned down before he could blink. The elf held a knife to his throat, creating a slight pressure on his jugular, but that wasn't his only concern.

Those eyes. Those red eyes, glowing with rage. And those teeth thin and sharp…

The guard shuddered. He'd hoped never to encounter a vampire, the stories heard as a young boy fueling his fear. But it was even worse that he was in affiliation with the Dark Brotherhood – an order of trained assassins who murdered for gold and, in most cases, pleasure.

Through a deadly hiss he laid it all out to him – that he would kill him, his family, his friends if he didn't oblige to his demand – the pressure of the blade steadily increasing. Fearing for his life and others', he agreed. He could release the prisoner. He'll tell the other guards; they won't stop him.

Before the elves left the Altmer gave the guard a brief smile – purposefully exposing his long canines – along with a wink. The Bosmer seemed too shocked to notice anything, keeping his gaze straight ahead. Whatever the Altmer wanted with him the guard wasn't sure of. And he didn't care to know, either, as long as that damn vampire didn't sink his fangs into his neck.


	2. Past Ghosts

Dawn was just breaking – painting the horizon in purple and red hues. Still the rest of the sky was a bruised blackish-blue, stars sprinkled across its surface. Edhelas walked alongside the Altmer, silent in his own thoughts – and maybe a little afraid to speak. He still wasn't sure about the man's intentions. Was he saving him? Or was it a trick? Perhaps he was luring him away to some remote location to drink his blood there – or, worse, a vampire cave, where he would be a feast for the High Elf's fellow kin. The thought unnerved him.

"Alright there?"

Edhelas nearly jumped fifteen feet into the air. It took a second for his heart to stop pounding and realize what the Altmer had said. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," Edhelas said rapidly. "Why?"

"You seem perturbed."

"Hmm," Edhelas could only let himself say, not wanting to give his suspicions away.

If the Altmer suspected his concerns, he didn't show it, and continued his small talk. "Worry not; we're almost to the city."

Edhelas blinked. "City?" he repeated. Out of all the wicked places that he imagined he would be brought to, a city was definitely not one of them. _A vampire in a city?_ Edhelas thought. Suddenly the vampire's persona shifted in his mind, turning from an odd but civilized individual, to a ruthless killer, snatching his victims off the street in the light of the moon, feeding from them as they squirmed and kicked under his weight.

He didn't want to ask, but his curiosity compelled him to, though he knew he'd probably be kicking himself for it later. "Erm… Aren't there… you know," Edhelas dared, "_people_ in cities?" The Altmer raised an eyebrow. "I mean," Edhelas continued, "more people than usual. Like… _lots_ of people."

The Altmer cocked his head. "Yes. What of it?"

"Wouldn't they… Wouldn't you…"

"I don't feed openly, if that's what you're getting at."

Unfortunately for the poor Bosmer, it was, and the comment did nothing to ease the images of the vampire swirling in his mind. _Told you you'd be kicking yourself_, he thought, his gag reflex kicking in a bit as he imagined the blood from a recent kill dripping from the vampire's lips.

But soon his mind became engrossed in other things, however, as a looming grey tower – so high it seemed to almost touch the clouds – surrounded by a circular wall of the same color came into view. It seemed to be its own kingdom – its own world – nestled on an island bordered by Lake Rumare, its only connection to the rest of the world a single bridge, long and extensive. Edhelas marveled at the sight.

"The Imperial City," the Altmer said, then added, "and our destination."

Suddenly the scene clicked with the name, and Edhelas recalled the city's precise geometric design – its districts reaching out from the Imperial Palace like spokes of a wheel – drawn on a map from somewhere. "Why there?" he asked.

The Altmer made no comment. He asked again, but to no avail. Deciding not to press any further – lest the vampire change his mind about feeding from him – he let the matter be, leaving a suddenly heavy silence between them.

It was some time before Edhelas spoke again. "You forgot to tell me your name."

"You never asked."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Edhelas said, his tone laden with sarcasm. "I've been captured by a vampire after spending half the night in jail for 'trespassing' in what's-his-face's castle, with no idea what in Oblivion I was doing beforehand, and I didn't ask for your name. How _rude_ of me!"

He couldn't see his face, but, to his relief, there was a hint if a smile in the vampire's voice. "Arto."

Edhelas snorted. "What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"It's my name," the Altmer replied.

It was Edhelas's turn to raise an eyebrow. "Arto? That doesn't sound High Elfish. Some sort of nickname?"

"Somewhat."

"What's your real name, then?"

"That is my real name – for now, at least."

Edhelas eyed him incredulously. "You have more than one name?"

Arto grinned at him. "Yes. But I had an original name, just like yours, christened by my father when I was just out of my mother's womb. But it has been long lost to me for years now."

"How does that happen?'

He laughed, high and rich. "When you've lived as long as I have, things long past tend to slip from your memory – forgotten with the centuries."

"So you just forget your name? Just like that?"

"One day I wake up from sleeping for – 100? 500 years? Who knows – and I don't remember." He chuckled. "Alas, the vampire's curse."

Edhelas gaped at him. "100 and 500 years? You must've seen a lot of great things."

Arto shook his head. "You assume too much. The longer you live as a vampire, the more things tend to blur together, until essentially it's all unrecognizable."

"Then how old are you?"

Another laugh. "Ah, Edhelas," he said. "Haven't you ever been told not to inquire about a man's age?"

Ceasr Branck ate his breakfast at his small kitchen nook by his basement, keeping his eyes straight ahead, as always. And, as always, the old Breton was overcome with resentment whenever he was near that damned basement.

_So tiresome_, he thought, swallowing another tasteless spoonful of sloppy oatmeal.

What he didn't understand – and what kept him up some nights – was why him? He'd led a nice life, devoted his weekdays to work and weekends to the Nine. He'd had an excellent job position in the Office of Imperial Commerce, had a lovely wife, and plenty of money to spare. Sure, he spent some nights gambling, betting on fights, spending on whores. But really – who hasn't? And even for all his vices he certainly didn't deserve to wake up one day – hung over from a drunken night to find his basement sabotaged by those… vermin; those scoundrels who've done worse debaucheries than he will ever intend to do. He didn't deserve to lose his wife, who was sick of the situation most of all, left with nothing but a home that served as a base for a bunch of ne'er-do-wells. And he could do nothing about it.

Ceasr jumped at a knock on his door. _Please not more of them…_

He was thinking about not answering when there was another knock – more stern and commanding.

"Open up, Ceasr. I know you're in there," came a voice, calm but tinged with a threat.

_No I'm not_, Ceasr thought. He got up from his seat and meant to sneak past the door, up the stairs, to his bedroom. But as he passed his door, another knock sounded. "I hear you, Ceasr."

He stopped in his tracks, cursing mentally. _Damn vampire_.

He sighed and began to unlock his door, working through each lock one by one. When he opened it, he didn't expect to see two people. There was the vampire, of course, a High Elf with dull red eyes, with his face mostly veiled by a hood. But the other one he hadn't seen before; a new face, a Wood Elf.

"Who's he?" Ceasr said, peering at the small elf.

"No one that concerns you. Just let us in," the vampire stated.

"If you insist."

He opened the door wider to let them in, then closed it behind them.

"Was S'Rasha by today?" the vampire – Arto, was it? – said.

'The shipment's been taken care of, with complete discretion, as protocol calls for. Where's my payment?"

Arto rummaged through his pockets, counted the right amount, and handed him a small bundle of coins.

Ceasr examined them with an unsatisfied "hmph", then tucked them in a hidden pocket inside his robe. "Better hope he pays you better than he pays me," he growled at the Wood Elf, who was too bewildered to respond back.

"For the kind of job you do, it's more than enough," Arto said, eyes narrowing. "If you'll excuse us."

The two elves entered the basement – his basement – leaving him there, a prisoner, trapped in his own house. His eyes were fixed upon the basement door, his fury, like a root, anchoring him to the spot. He was tired of it – tired of not owning his house, not owning his basement, not owning his life.

_They'll get theirs'_, he thought. _I'll make sure of that_.

For the rest of the day Ceasr's mind was trapped in a whirlwind. It was so simple, so easily coming together, that he wanted to kick himself for not thinking of it sooner. He had to contact someone, something, that was greater than even the Imperial Legion. He couldn't just have troops alerting the whole city; _they_ would certainly know, and that would be the end of his life. No, he needed somebody with more… discretion.

The Dark Brotherhood was out of the question. Assassins tracking assassins was like trying to cut metal with metal: the targets would know the subtle hints, however small they may be, that they were being hunted, rendering the mission futile, impossible. He doubted the Dark Brotherhood would be much help, anyways, since _they_ built their mythical reputation for them.

But that was alright. There were others who would help him, others more skilled than mere assassins. Others more… _attuned_ with death.

Seems like he'd have to pay a visit to the Arcane University.

The two elves descended a set of stairs leading from the basement door, another veering left off the landing ahead of them. The pungent odor of brine stung Edhelas's nose – along with something sweeter. _Skooma_, Edhelas concluded.

Down the second stairs, and Edhelas was thrown into a bizarre setting. It seemed as if the Bret's basement had been renovated into a tavern, or a brothel, or at least the likeliness of either one. Men were gathered around tables, talking and barking out boisterous guffaws as they played games of cards. Others were nestled with women in whorish outfits – who whispered nonsense in their ears, giggling. Torches hung from sconces throughout the space – filling the room with a convivial glow.

A thunderous boom came from Edhelas's right and a man was flung to the floor, smoke snaking upwards from his ashen body. The room went silent.

Edhelas froze, thinking the man dead, but he was up as quickly as he had fallen. "Damned contraption," he cursed, brushing soot and dust from his soiled blue robe.

The room erupted in a chorus of laughter. "Just give it up, Errol, before you set the whole place aflame!" a Nord boomed.

"Preposterous! I can't just give up on something so revolutionary! By the Nine, I swear you all will thank me one day for such an ingenious idea," he retorted, his hands twirling and gesturing dramatically.

This did nothing to suppress the laughter. "Fools," he muttered, shaking his head. He turned back to continue on whatever he held so highly, but noticed the two standing there, and a broad smile stretched across his face, his white teeth clashing with the black ash smeared upon his face. "Arto! Glad to see you're back."

He strode towards him, arms outstretched, and enveloped him in a hug. "Getting so boring around here without you," Errol said as he pulled away. Edhelas noticed the two were equal height, and up close he could see the pointed tips of Errol's ears; another Altmer.

"So I gather; nothing to do with yourselves when I'm gone but drink and make love to your heart's content," Arto said, dusting soot that had rubbed off onto his robes when they embraced. Then, nodding at Errol's grubby robe, added, "And, in your case, experiment."

"Not experimenting," Errol corrected, "but_ creating_. And it's really not as bad as it seems. What you witnessed was just a mishap."

"Of course, my friend," Arto said, placing a hand on Errol's shoulder. "But for now, there are other pressing matters to attend to. Why, you haven't even met our newest member."

Edhelas cocked a mental eyebrow. _Member? _

And then he remembered the Altmer's words – referencing to his "future" – the night before in the Cheydinnhal dungeons, and he realized that his future was with these men and women, these strangers; whoever these people were, he would become one of them.

But none of it made sense to the Bosmer. Of all people, why him? Sure, he was accused for something he didn't do, but that happened all the time – hardly an excuse to personally release someone from prison. But if that wasn't it, then what was?

Errol's face mimicked his bewilderment. "A new member?"

Arto waved a hand towards Edhelas, Errol's gaze following his gesture. He perked up as he noticed the Bosmer. "Oh! Hello! Welcome to the sanctuary. I'm Errol, as I'm certain you gathered," he said – barely pausing for breath – and offered his hand to shake. Edhelas took it, and felt as if he were pulling his whole hand off, for the Altmer's grip was unyielding for such a thin man. "And what is your name?"

"Edhelas," he replied, trying to ignore the splitting pain in his hand. "Err- what were you working on?"

"Why, only the biggest breakthrough in military engineering Tamriel will ever see," Errol said, becoming overly excited. Edhelas gave a sigh of relief as Errol let go of his hand, but the man didn't notice. He leaned in closer to Edhelas. "I've almost figured out a device that will create a destructive conflagration on queue – without the use of magic." Errol chuckled, clasping his hands together, while the Bosmer pretended to join in his eagerness; he was getting the notion that the High Elf was completely insane.

"Of course, the others think me crazy," Errol continued, frowning. (_And they might not be too far off_, Edhelas commented to himself.) "But I'd like to see _them_ come up with such a revolutionary idea. By the Nine, I'll show them. Would you like to see my progress so far?"

"Err…" From what Edhelas had witnessed, it seemed hardly like progress.

"Oh, come! You really must see-"

"Now, now, Errol, don't pressure the poor fellow."

An Argonian woman – whose age Edhelas couldn't decipher, hard to with those reptilians – had approached them while Errol was rambling, her scales flushed with deep greens and blues, her fin-shaped horns adorned with golden hoops.

"Wasn't pressuring! Just, erm, thought he might be interested in, err… Anyway, look who's back." Errol gestured toward Arto, chuckling nervously.

"So I see. Good to have you back, Arto," she said. As with all Argonians, her voice was a thick reptilian gruffness, as if she gargled nails everyday.

"Always a pleasure," Arto said, and they embraced.

"And who is this?" she said, letting go of the Altmer.

"Edhelas," the Bosmer answered.

"River-Dancer," she said, bowing. "A pleasure to meet you."

"And you too," he said, returning the bow, feeling slightly awkward.

She gave him a faint smile, then turned to Arto. "So I suppose you brought him here for a reason?"

Arto's mouth twitched. "He was found in Cheydinnhal Castle, framed as a necromancer. It was only with my interference that he escaped the shackles of imprisonment."

"He got in by himself?" River-Dancer said, crossing her arms.

Arto shrugged. "I'm not sure. There was nobody else there that was seen besides him. And all the while he claims not to remember any of it, or anything about himself, for that matter."

The Bosmer's heart jolted. _He doesn't believe me?_

His story was sketchy, of course, but he thought the vampire had seen the truth, had seen the whole situation as a big mistake – his "rescue", however strange that may have been, was proof of that, or so he thought. _And now here I am, saved by whoever these people are from a life of imprisonment, only to be called a liar here, as well. Perfect._

Frustrated, he gave the Altmer a sharp look, which, to the Bosmer's growing irritation, he ignored. Edhelas rolled his eyes, shaking his head; the man had an annoying tendency to disregard things.

"Also, he was found with three soul gems on his person," Arto continued, cool as stone, as if Edhelas wasn't there.

"You believe him to be a necromancer then?" the Argonian said, seemingly blind to Edhelas's actions, as well.

"I doubt it. No magical capabilities, in fact. He could hardly recognize my magically concealed form in the darkness."

"A lackey, then?"

"Perhaps, but if he hasn't given any straight answer to the guard, then he won't to me. Which is why I bring him to you."

She mulled all of it over briefly in her mind. "Wise of you, I guess, to bring him here, even if it is illogical on your part, hoping to turn him into one of us before our master has even seen the man. But anyways, did you check his head, by any chance?"

Arto wrinkled his nose in confusion. "Pardon?"

"Did you feel his head, to see if he hit it?"

Arto hesitated, baffled. "No… I didn't."

"I didn't," Edhelas added. "I mean, I'd know if I did, obvious – ow!"

"Did that hurt?" she asked, running her fingers in his hair, her sharpened nails digging into his scalp. A smile played upon her lips.

"Of course it did! You pulled my hair!"

She laughed, continuing her examination.

When she was done, she stood back, scrutinizing him, lips puckered in thought. She "hmmed" softly, tapping her index finger against her chin. "Well, he didn't hit his head."

"Of course I didn't! I told you I'd know if I hit my own head!"

Edhelas began to grumble, rubbing his now-sore scalp, while River-Dancer continued, "I'll have to examine him through other means."

"Do you have any notion as to what's going on?" Arto said, intrigued.

"Somewhat. Come, both of you."

Edhelas followed, arms folded, pouting. He had a feeling more pain would be involved. He muttered a curse behind her back, and was retaliated by a slap on the back of his head. Turning around, he scowled at Arto, who feigned nonchalance.

He decided to keep his thoughts to himself – lest he wanted to end up brain damaged with his grumblings. But though he spat nonsense behind her back, he admitted to himself that he felt at ease in her presence. She had an aura of gentleness – not unlike a mother's – while also emanating a sense of wisdom that transcended beyond his comprehension. It was as if a hidden knowledge thrived in the depths of her vertical pupils, in the creases at the corners of her eyes, in every pore of her skin.

"What about you, Arto?" the Argonian spoke suddenly. "I assume everything went well? No guards saw you?"

"Oh, they saw me," Arto replied, cool and casual-like.

"But you were able to escape pursuit?" River-Dancer said, seeming to be quite unconcerned, as well.

"Of course not. They did not pursue me."

"Really? How so?"

Arto's voice was tinged with devious glee. "The oldest trick in the book. Threaten, blackmail, and, of course, mention that you're from the Dark Brotherhood, and even the most stalwart of men will become more susceptible to manipulation."

River-Dancer let out a throaty laugh. "Ah, forever do you amaze me with your outrageous antics!"

"This is the Dark Brotherhood?" Edhelas said, though he doubted it was so. A bunch of radical, religious assassins wouldn't sit around with whores and drink their lives away. At least, not in his mind.

"No, no, child. Not us, even though our intents are somewhat similar," she explained quickly.

Edhelas didn't know what she meant, but was unable to question any further, for she dismissed the subject altogether as they entered a fair-sized room off the side of the large basement. It was scarcely furnished – a wide desk in one corner, with a small round table in the middle of the space. A flat-looking rectangular slab of stone rested against the wall to their left.

"You don't mind if I use your room, do you?" River-Dancer said to Arto, brushing off dust from the slab of stone.

"Do as you wish."

She nodded to him, satisfied with his approval. Then, to Edhelas, said, "Get on the bed."

Confused, Edhelas hesitated, staring around the room; as far as he knew, there wasn't one. "Err… What bed?" he said.

She rolled her eyes and grabbed his arm – her grip firmer than Edhelas had expected – and pulled him toward the stone. _"This_ bed," she said, pushing him down on top of it. The motion made him think of a million things he could do with any woman but the one standing before him. Though she was nice, Argonians were definitely not his forte. "Vampires usually prefer stone beds – for reasons I can hardly guess."

"To each his own," Arto said, shrugging beside her.

"Well, in any case, let's get to business," she said, clasping her hands together. "Lie down."

Again, those thoughts bombarded his mind as he obeyed her command. "Close your eyes," she said, "and get rid of all thought. Only breathe." He was wary of her actions, but complied, nevertheless.

She began whispering, an undecipherable chant to some sort of spell. For some reason, the experience seemed familiar.

Soon he was feeling a slight tingling in his arms, legs, torso, head – and grew more intense by the minute. He could hear a slight humming – soft, vibrating – and couldn't tell if it was coming from him or River-Dancer. His body felt as if it were pulsating, releasing dormant energies, or consuming some. He took it all in with barely a thought, his mind a blank slate, untouched by the briefest of mental notions. He didn't know where he was, nor did he care, absorbed in the harmony of the humming and that rhythmic pulsing.

As he was lifted to a state of higher being, swarms of images bombarded his third eye – flashes of pictures like distant lightning bolts.

_There is the rain, and the water, surrounding all sides. The bow of the ship dips precariously among the thrashing waves, and is drenched by the rushing sea. There are voices, he could tell, shouting, but they sound far away, as if in a fog._

_He wakes up after the blackness came over, and he finds himself on an unfamiliar beach among the wreck of the ship. Bodies lay around him – one even beside his feet – and a feverish despair overtakes him._

_He wanders. There are offers of a home, of hope, but to him there is none. There is only water and corpses. _

_Corpses…_

_He searches for those who knew of corpses – who bathe in their rotten blood, and dance among graves. The cave glows with a faint greenish light. A man sits before him, on a throne of bones. He lifts his hand, gesturing to him. "Come closer to the light…"_

Edhelas jerked awake, screaming and floundering upon the bed of stone. Two blurred figures were beside him, pinning him down, with many others behind them, walking past as if they saw nothing at all. Voices called out to him all around – shrill whispers mingled together with an almost dizzying quality.

But one voice held clear. "No, we have him! Get out! We don't need your help!"

His vision began to brighten as clarity began to take hold; the voices lessened as a gentle murmur rang in his ear. "Don't be afraid," it cooed. "They are just memories. They can't hurt you."

Edhelas blinked, and found Arto and River-Dancer standing over him, both wearing concerned expressions. "Only memories," the Argonian repeated. Edhelas realized she was the one that had spoken.

His heart pounded in his ears, and his breathing came out in choking, gasping sobs; his face was damp with sweat and tears. A wave of nausea crept up his throat, but he only dry-heaved over the side of the bed, unable to reject anything back up on an empty stomach. The action left him shaking and weak, and as the nausea passed the world seemed to stumble around him, then faded as he collapsed.


End file.
